


Thanksgiving by Candy Apple

by Candy_A



Series: These Two Hearts by Candy Apple [8]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Holidays, M/M, Romance, Series, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-05-13
Updated: 2000-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candy_A/pseuds/Candy_A





	Thanksgiving by Candy Apple

Author's disclaimer: Pet Fly owns the guys and The Sentinel. No money being made. Just for fun.

Author's notes: No real plot here--just romance, smarm and holiday sentimentality. This is the only first person POV entry in the "These Two Hearts" Series. I thought it made more sense to let the guys speak for themselves this time.

Warnings: Sex is mentioned past tense--no "live action" this time out. Romance, men in aprons, anatomical references to turkeys...

Thanksgiving by Candy Apple

One of my favorite things in life is watching Blair sleep. Preferably all rumpled and bed-warmed, curled up in some odd position, hair every which way, maybe drooling a little. I've tried to put my finger on why I like it so well, but I can't. I don't think I ever will find just one reason.

It could be because he looks so damn beautiful lying there, sometimes naked, sometimes marked from our lovemaking...and sometimes all bundled up in sweats and socks--harder to get at than a Victorian virgin on her first date. Then I think maybe it's because he has this childlike innocence and tranquility about him when he sleeps--but then I check out the five o'clock shadow, the broad shoulders and the power tool at half mast, and the idea of childlike innocence is shot in the ass.

Is it too crude to sit here and rhapsodize about someone's ass? Probably. Blair has a beautiful ass. Just round enough without being a bubble butt--which I think is sexy as hell on women, but doesn't do much for me on a man. There's a tiny bit of hair when you get into the most secret places, but not very much. Like his back, Blair's butt is smooth and silky to the touch. And I do spend a lot of time cataloguing the way touch feels in that area.

Blair is the first lover I ever rimmed. He's the first lover I ever licked from head to toe, the first lover whose armpits I nuzzled. I do things with Blair without so much as a moment of hesitation that I would have steadfastly refused to do with anyone else I've ever had in my bed or in my life. It could be because the poor guy is nearly obsessed with bathing since we became lovers--he's scared to death he's going to gross me out or that I'll smell or see or taste or feel something I don't like on his body. Not likely.

I think it's because he's my mate. In the truest sense of the word. My life, my other half, the one who is more precious to me than my own life ever could be. Every part of him is beautiful and precious to me.

Even when he drools on my chest through the night or farts in his sleep.

Sometimes I think about what he endured to get here, for us to be together, and it makes me sick. I want to scream, cry, yell, hit something...and it's so useless because the only person who deserves that fury is dead. My dearest regret is that you can only kill someone once. But then I could kill Watson every day for the rest of my life and still not undo what happened.

Sometimes I watch him and I wonder how there is anyone in this world so sick and depraved that they could see this same beautiful sight and be inspired to inflict pain. That it could be a source of pleasure to watch that precious face in the peaceful repose of sleep transform and twist into fear and agony. That bruising and marking that soft, wonderful skin could bring pleasure. That someone's life could be graced with this beautiful man, and their appreciation of that

gift was to torment him and scar him and chip away at him until he was close to death simply from a lack of food and living in constant terror--not to mention the unspeakable acts of violence...

I swallowed hard and blinked back tears. I wouldn't upset Blair with this. Not ever again if I can help it, and not today. This is a day of celebration and thanks, of family, of home--of appreciating all the wonderful things we have together. In so many ways, he has recovered so much better than I have, and he was the one who suffered the most. Maybe it's in Blair's nature to move on from the past, or maybe it's something in his meditations, or maybe it's something that's simply too horrible and dark and frightening to revisit.

I spent almost a half hour just watching him. It was comfortable in the room--a little warm, even, so pulling back the sheet and feasting my eyes wasn't causing Blair any chill or discomfort.

I'll never forget how he looked there, sleeping on his stomach, one leg drawn up, parting those perfect ass cheeks temptingly. He had one fist resting on the bed up near his face, the other at some odd angle on the mattress. He had a bright passion mark on his right butt cheek. It was bigger and brighter than I thought it was going to be when I was doing it, but I laughed it off. No one better be checking out his bare ass but me, so why worry?

He woke up and caught me looking at him, and I wondered for a minute if he'd be pissed off--or worse--if he'd be unnerved by it or upset by the scrutiny. I should have known better. He just grinned at me.

"What?" Blair asked, smiling at me as I lay on my side, propped on one arm, smiling down at him.

"I love watching you."

"I must look great," Blair responded, laughing and snuggling up to me, collecting the first in a long series of morning kisses.

"You do to me."

"Last night was...wild," Blair said, chuckling and blushing a little. He swears he doesn't blush. He does. And when you can see them, his cute little ears turn pink.

"Think we can last on three hours' sleep?" I smiled down at my armload.

"Don't think we have much choice." Blair yawned. "What time is it?"

"Almost seven. We have to get moving."

"Maybe this cooking thing wasn't such a great idea, man." Blair rubbed his eyes, then closed them again, looking like one of those new puppies who just can't tolerate the light yet. He looked so damned adorable I just had to kiss him again. And again. And once more just for good measure. "Sally's a great cook. What if everything sucks?"

"Blair, Sally's not coming over here as a food critic for the Times. She's coming to Thanksgiving dinner with Stephen and my dad and everybody else."

"You ever do a turkey before?"

"Yeah, last night," I quipped, doing a loud raspberry on his neck and relishing the giggle that got me. He swears he doesn't giggle, either. It's like the blushing thing. He does it, I love it, and he won't admit it. So why mention it anymore?

"Don't look now, but I think it's time to baste me again," Blair teased, shimmying up my body and climbing on top of me. My cock definitely liked that new development. I rocked him a little by moving my hips, and he groaned, smiling at the sensation.

"You know, Chief, even if the food sucks and everyone gets food poisoning from dinner, it's still our first time hosting Thanksgiving at our place out here at the house. It'll be special no matter what." He's heavy against my body, warm, a little hairy, and I can feel his heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest against mine.

"What's wrong, Jim?"

"Nothing," I said, smiling and caressing that beautiful face when it contorted just a little with concern. "I was just thinking about the one thing I'm most thankful for." I framed his face with both hands now. "Thank God for you," I said softly, kissing his lips gently, then pulling back a little. "I love you."

"I love you too," he responded, smiling, before attacking my mouth again with renewed vigor. Needless to say, we ran very late getting up to start our dinner preparations...

I watched him today moving around the kitchen, wearing that flowered apron. Actually, it's got a lot of bright colors in it, with some peppers and other veggies and stuff, but it still irks him when I call it his "flowered apron", like he's Martha Stewart with bigger biceps. Today, I could almost be convinced that he is.

He knows how to make stuffing. I mean, I know you tear up bread and do some weird things to it and then cram it up the bird's butt. That, however, is the extent of my knowledge. But Jim taught me how to make stuffing. He made a fucking pumpkin pie. I was all set to floor it back into town to the lone open grocery store and pray good old Chef Pierre would be on hand to help out, and he just calmly starts putting a pie together. In his flowered apron.

My lover the ex-Covert Ops Army guy, Military Liaison to the CIA, supercop bakes great pies. In his flowered apron. God, how I love this man.

I did the potatoes--he likes garlic mashed potatoes, so that's what I made. I also took care of cooking the veggies, making up hors d'oeuvres, and struggling through a recipe for banana bread. It disintegrates on contact, but it tastes good. We both worked on the turkey, and actually, it was even edible. Will wonders never cease.

Through all this food preparation, I watched Jim. I soaked up being close to him and working together. While he mixed up the dressing, I watched his arms. Beneath the baggy sweater he was wearing, you couldn't see much, but you can just sense the power and strength in the man's body in watching him move. Sometimes I go up to him and nuzzle at him until I get those arms around me, because it's the best feeling in the world. Warm and safe and loved, tight against that firm chest that manages to make a great pillow, listening to his heart beating beneath my ear.

We had the radio playing while we cooked, and in the middle of everything, with people starting to gather around the dining room table, Jim decides he's going to slow dance with me. "I Only Have Eyes for You" is playing on the radio, and here we are, Jim in his flowered apron and me in my "Kiss the Cook" barbecue apron, food at crucial points of stirring, turning or serving all around us, and we're in each other's arms, swaying slightly to the music, Jim singing this sort of halting little version of the song in my ear while he holds me.

I think this is what Heaven--or Nirvana--must be...and it's mine every day for the asking.

I wasn't sure what was going to happen when Jim's dad came into the kitchen unexpectedly and spotted us. Jim didn't see him, or even seem to know anyone else was in the room--he really did only have eyes for me right then, and with a Sentinel, that's saying a lot. Bill just smiled, made an apologetic face at me when he caught my eyes, and backed out of the room again. It's funny, I never expected acceptance from Jim's family. Man, was I wrong.

Jim has the most wonderful smile in the world. It could light up the galaxy. I love to see him smile, but mostly, I love it when he smiles at me, because those smiles are different. His whole face changes when he looks at me. He makes me feel like the most amazing, rare treasure on earth every time he looks at me. When the song was over and he pulled back, he gave me one of those smiles before realizing the veggies were burning.

He really had fun with this whole messy dinner project. Jim's pretty domestic, when it comes down to it. I think he always wanted to find someone to make a home with, to put on family dinners with, to grow old with...I thank whatever Higher Power made this happen--made me the one he chose to be by his side for all of those things.

I know that what happened to me hurt him more in some ways than it hurt me. I live with those demons every day of my life, but I have a refuge from them in Jim's arms. I know that sounds hokey, but it's true. They way he holds me, touches me, looks at me--the way he showers me with love when I need it the most--Jim healed me. I had to fight my way back, and a lot of that was "my" recovery, but if I recovered, it was because of Jim's reactions when I was scared or hurting or just trying to overcome my fear of something. He was patient beyond words, gentle, tender, caring...he taught me how to love again, and how relax and be loved, and how to start enjoying my life. He made that fear that was my constant companion, go away.

While we were sitting at the table, feasting on the fruits of our labors, I watched Jim interacting with his family, with our friends, and I loved him so much at that moment it hurt. Here is this man with enough strength in his arms and hands to snap a man's neck like a brittle twig, who has this incredible gentleness in his gestures, and this understated polish in his words. He is well-read, intelligent, and beneath that calm exterior lies a devilish sense of humor and the spirit of a rebel. I've never known anyone quite like Jim--such an intriguing mosaic of traits.

When the guests had left, we ignored the mountain of kitchen debris and made love on the couch in the music room. I could feel Jim lingering a bit over the faint surgery scar on my side as he trailed kisses over my body. He was handling me like spun glass and I knew what was going through his mind. We both bring some of our scars from the ordeal with Vince, to bed with us. I can't see any of Jim's, but they are as deep as mine in their own way.

Someday I hope I can make him understand that it wasn't his fault, that he didn't fail me, that he didn't fall down on the job as my protector. I've let go of a lot of my anger, because I'm so happy now. For any pain I've suffered, I've been rewarded many times over. I know that Jim feels this...rage inside. And I know he aches for my pain, as if he felt it himself, when his lips linger a bit too long over a scar, when his hands are so gentle that he seems afraid I might shatter, when there is something mixed with the love in his eyes--a sort of regret and longing...a wish to turn back time and undo what happened. In his way, Jim is more a prisoner of Vince's depravity than I ever was. It is for that I hate Vince most. He was a sick bastard, and that's why he hurt me the way he did. Doesn't excuse him, by any means, but you know, we're all twisted by the shit we go through, and Vince was a fucking pretzel.

But to know that Jim will always hurt inside for what was done to me...anything that hurts Jim hurts me worse than a wound on my own body. The same is true of Jim, and perhaps that's the bizarre irony of the emotional scars we bear--Jim aches for my pain, and I ache more for his pain than for my own.

I never thought anyone would love me the way Jim does. I never thought anyone would hold me when I cried, take care of me when I was sick, endure my outbursts with stoic patience--and love me out of my bad moods. I never thought I'd be anyone's treasure--but I am Jim's. And for that, I'm so thankful I could never find the right words.

When we woke up on the couch, sticky, a couple limbs asleep, stiff from the odd position, and facing a kitchen that looked like a war zone at two in the morning, I realized that it was moments like these that were the greatest of my life, the ones to cherish.

My life of loving Jim and being his life partner has made the "ordinary moments" the ones I treasure most. To see the love in his eyes and feel it in his touch when we're having breakfast, cleaning up the kitchen or painting the basement. It's one thing to see and feel love when you make love. It's another to feel it surround you every moment of your life.

For that, I am thankful.

Most of all, for Jim, I am thankful. And I wish for everyone to have just one moment of love as powerful as every moment of every ordinary day of our lives together.

End

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!


End file.
